Of Their Shadows Deep
by varietyofwords
Summary: Paris. 1920s. Chuck and Blair. "What is truth? Where a woman is concerned, it's the story that's easiest to believe." – Edith Wharton
1. Prologue

"_What is truth? Where a woman is concerned, it's the story that's easiest to believe." – Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth (1905)_

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><p><strong>Manhattan, New York, October 1932<strong>

His fingers drum against his leg until he catches himself, until he shifts uncomfortably in the hard, wooden chair and curls his fingers around the arms of the chair. The hum of the man seated across from him causes him to stall mid-shift with one hand curled around the arm and another foolishly raised high in the air. The hum of the man seated across from him causes anxiety to rise and his gaze to shift from the spot on the floor – the spill of an ink pot from the late eighteen hundreds, he decided nearly an hour ago – to the page being flipped without comment to rest atop the stack on the desk.

He opens his mouth to hedge off the rejection; he shuts his mouth in a reminder that he managed to earn an interview with Mister Maxwell Perkins and he ought not to assume the worst. He holds his breath as Mister Perkins turns the final page of his manuscript and watches the acclaimed editor's critical eye examine every word, every turn of phrase. A shaky breath is released as the editor adds the paper to the stack, as Mister Perkins gathers up the papers in his hand and taps the short edge atop his desk to arrange the papers back into a perfect line.

The papers are returned to Mister Perkins' desk rather than handed to him, which he takes a good sign. He begins to offer the editor a smile, but it falls off his face when Mister Perkins' sharp eyes narrow at him over the large stack of books – those by Hemingway, Wolfe, and Fitzgerald – arranged across his desk. A reminder of Maxwell Perkins' belief in meritocracy; a reminder that not everyone can or should have the influence of Maxwell Perkins' name behind their work.

"Mister Humphrey," Mister Perkins begins leaning back in his chair and keeping his steely gaze on the young man seated across from him, "how long has America been in this god forsaken depression?"

"Three years, sir," Dan Humphrey replies. The fact that he isn't entirely sure where this conversation is going shows on his face, on the way he shifts his chair, on the way he nearly stumbles over the answer.

"And, according to the _New York Times_, more than seven hundred and fifty thousand New Yorkers are dependent upon city relief with another, uh, hundred and sixty thousand on the waiting list, no?"

"That sounds about right, sir," Dan replies trying to recall the headline proclaiming such a statement to be true. His family had stopped purchasing the newspaper several months ago, although his sister snuck home old copies for him to pursue. A difficult task considering the paper was utilized by Jenny and the other girls as practice parchment for dress patterns and, therefore, riddled with holes.

"Then why would you presume that people want to spend money they do not have on a novel mirroring their own situation?"

The comment catches Dan off guard, and his fumble for an answer causes his body to shift uncomfortably against the chair once again and sends his hat flying off his knee to the floor. He stoops down to collect it steadying himself with a hand on the edge of Mister Perkins' desk, but he removes the hand and abandons his efforts to collect his hat when he hears the editor's hum of disapproval. And as he moves to sit erectly in the chair, Dan asserts his belief that art should imitate life and that people should know they are not alone in their suffering. Assertions that are silenced as Mister Perkins raises his hand in a gesture for Dan to cease speaking, as he moves to rearrange the papers comprising years of work by Dan into more neatly arranged pile.

"Mister Humphrey, you can write."

The comment causes Dan to ignore the oncoming contradiction in favor of focusing on the fact that Maxwell Perkins believes there is something redeemable about his work, and he cannot help but offer the esteemed editor a smile and a murmur of thanks for his support. Yet Mister Perkins' steely eyes never cool, never weaver in their open admonishment, and Dan has to roll back his self-congratulations in order to focus on what Mister Perkins has begun to explain.

"—the rich and the famous. That is what people want to read about, Mister Humphrey. They want to visit Shanghai or believe their daughters could be Shirley Temple. They want to be Greta Garbo or Clark Gable. Not—"

There is a pause as Mister Perkins flips through the pages searching for the name the protagonist in Dan's manuscript, which he recalls being a very thinly veiled reference to the writer. He gives up after thumbing through the first twenty or so pages, decides not to waste his time on this story when he knows exactly what kind of story he needs to bring to publishing world in order to survive another year.

"If you can write something reminiscent of _The Age of Innocence_, bring me your manuscript. Otherwise," Mister Perkins states gathering up the papers and offering them back to their author across the large stack of books, "I'm afraid there is nothing I can do for you."

The finality of his rejection catches Dan so completely off guard that he remains seated in his chair rather than standing to collect his manuscript from Mister Perkins' outstretched hands. The editor is forced to drop the manuscript onto the pile of books in front of him – the unbounded, rejected pile of papers clearly failing to measure up to the quality found in the stack before him – and he moves to his feet in a silent urging for Mister Humphrey to gather his things and leave.

The younger man slowly rises to his feet, accepts Mister Perkins' outstretched hand in a firm farewell even as he struggles to reconcile the knowledge that the great Maxwell Perkins thinks he can write with the editor's refusal to help him. He moves to gather up his manuscript but pauses as his fingers touch the paper, and cold animosity crosses his face with the realization that the dream contained within these pages has been shattered.

Dan drums his fingers against the pages one last time before offering Mister Perkins' another farewell, before gathering his coat off the back of the chair he occupied for ninety-six hopeful minutes, before striding towards the door and leaving the manuscript abandoned atop a first edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald's _The Great Gatsby_.

The walk through the maze of receptionists and typists, of junior editors and people who fashion themselves as writers passes in a blur, and the finality of Mister Perkins' decision sinks in with the blast of cold air to Dan's face as he steps out of the building. He walks silently down the steps; words no longer registering until he feels a woman's small, slender hand curl around his arm.

"Dan," Vanessa states again with a tug on his sleeve. The inquisitive look in her fades with realization as he meets her gaze, and her hands falls from his sleeve as pity begins to twist her mouth into a frown. He shrugs off her attention hurrying across the street without waiting for the light to change as humiliation and embarrassment and anger twists in his gut.

How many times had he believed that this meeting would change his fortune and turn him from a lonely writer to a celebrated novelist? How many times had Vanessa told him that Maxwell Perkins would fall over himself to edit his manuscript and guide it to the best publisher?

He can hear Vanessa's heels on the sidewalk as she rushes to catch up with him. He can hear the hostility directed towards the black woman erring too close to the invisible lines diving this city. And he slows as he reaches the park where he had promised to meet his sister with news allowing Vanessa to catch up with him on the corner of West Fifty-Ninth Street and Seventh Avenue before offering a murmured apology.

"Dan," Vanessa breathes in a heavy exhale as they cross West Fifty-Ninth Street and head into Central Park. His name is lost in the rustle of the leaves in the few remaining trees around the now empty reservoir in Central Park north of Belvedere Castle.

"What exactly did Mister Perkins say?" Vanessa questions as they skirt around the beggars assembled on the street corner and keep their distance from the densely populated Hoover Valley assembled within the boundaries of the park.

Dan ignores her question not quite ready to share the rejection of his manuscript – the same one Vanessa had offered edits upon that he ignored. Yet he makes sure to hold onto Vanessa's elbow as they reach Depression Street and gives a silent muttering of thanks that his sister will be coming from Fifth Avenue as the dirty, hopeless faces of the residents peer out from their windowless shacks.

He scans the horizon as they near the appointed location, and he cannot help the way his lips twitch into a smile when the blonde he spotted turns her head showing those familiar albeit unfortunate Humphrey features they both inherited. The smile slides off his lips, however, when he sees the way his sister throws back her head – blonde hair cascading instead of neatly contained – in laughter over something the young man seated beside her said.

"What is my sister doing with Mister Archibald?" Dan questions snapping his head to the right to glare at his closest friend, but all Vanessa offers is an innocent shrug and a knowing look as she pulls away from him and makes her way towards the pairing awaiting Dan's news.

"Jenny," Vanessa greets warmly placing a small peck on the cheek of the younger sister of her dearest friend. She steps back, squeezes Jenny's hand, and offers her a smile before turning her attention to the gentleman waiting with Dan's younger sister. "Mister Archibald—"

"Nate, please," Mister Archibald interjects warmly with a boyish grin that makes his eyes seem even brighter than normal. "I know my mother insists you call me Mister Archibald, but she is not with us and I am not going to tell."

"Nate," she echoes in acquiescence with a smile. She glances up from the gentleman just in time to see a flicker of jealousy across Jenny's face; she glances down to keep from reminding Jenny that her fanciful dreams will never come true. The heavy bite on her tongue is unnecessary because Dan finally joins their little party and she is forced to remind everyone of their stations in life as she makes a round of introductions.

"Dan, you remember my employer, Mist—Nate Archibald," Vanessa reminds him as she gestures from one man to the next. "And, Mis—Nate, this if my friend and Jenny's brother, Dan Humphrey."

"Yes, of course," Nate replies offering out his hand for Dan to shake. Dan hesitates for a moment before bending at the waist and taking Nate's hand in a firm handshake. "I hope you don't mind, but Vanessa and your sister have told me so much about your meeting today that I couldn't resist the opportunity to come and hear straight from the source."

"You really did not have to," Dan replies as embarrassment coils and churns in his gut once more. He glances at the metal contraptions locked around Nate's spindly legs, at the intricately carved mahogany arms and gleaming metal fused together to support Nate's weight. "I'd hate for you to wear yourself out in order to hear bad news."

"Bad news?" Jenny echoes in question. Her lips are pulled into sadness and her eyebrows knitted in surprise, although the sharpness behind her gaze makes it clear that she will have words later with her brother for his hostility towards Nate.

With a sigh, Dan begins to explain Mister Perkins' rejection of his manuscript overplaying the comment about his ability to write and downplaying the suggestions of what he can do different in the next manuscript. And he is halfway through reiterating Mister Perkins' praise of his writing when the wind whips through Hoover Valley across the empty reservoir in Central Park north of Belvedere Castle where they currently stand.

Without a hatpin – all metal sold when her parents moved back to Vermont to eke out an existence from the soil – Vanessa's hat is grabbed by the wind and sent tumbling and flying towards Depression Street. Nate rolls himself towards the item in an attempt to be helpful, but Dan is the one who manages to snatch the hat from the grip of the wind and return it to its owner. He holds onto the green cloche hat longer than he should, and Vanessa offers him an odd look as she snatches the hat from his hands and returns it to his hand.

"I forgot my hat back at Mister Perkins' office," Dan replies in apology for his own behavior with a groan. "And my father is expecting me at the—"

"Don't worry about it," Vanessa interjects before offering to return to Mister Perkins' office for him. Dan thanks Vanessa with a sigh that conveys more relief than is currently evident on his face, and the young woman brushes off his thanks with a comment about how they are equal – he saved her hat and she shall save his.

"I should get back to work," Jenny interjects into the conversation with a glance over her shoulder in the direction of Fifth Avenue where her tyrannical employer lives. Her obvious unhappiness over the prospect of spending another night slaving over a dress pattern is soothed away by Nate's offer to escort her back, and the two leave – Jenny pushing Nate's wheelchair – before Dan can intercede or Vanessa can reclaim her job from the young blonde.

"I don't like this," Dan informs Vanessa with a scowl as his eyes never leaving the departing backsides of his sister and Nate Archibald's wheelchair.

"It's a harmless infatuation," Vanessa replies moving her hand to push her hat to her head as the chilly October wind picks up once more. She turns to leave but pauses for a moment to glance at her closest friend and drops her voice low to match the sentiment of her words. "I really am sorry, Dan."

"Are you?" Dan snaps in reply. The biting words sting them both, and he quickly tries to take them back with an apology and a snort of dismissive laughter. "The worst part is he wants Paris."

"Paris?" Vanessa echoes in confusion over the reference to the fabled city before realization dawns across her face. "He wants the story of your time in Paris?"

"Or something close to it," Dan replies in an acidic tone. "The world wants to hear about the Ser—"

"Serena van der Woodsens," she finishes when his voice faces, when her closest friend is unable to finish his sentence. The sound of the wind howling down Depression Street and scraping across the tin shacks fills their ears, and she turns to look the ragtag community in the distance as she tries to find the right words to say. But when she finally finds them, when she turns back to look at him, her closest friend is already making his way down the path towards Brooklyn.

And with a sigh, Vanessa turns on her heels and heads back towards Mister Perkins' office skirting Hoover Valley once more and taking a short cut through the park near the duck pond. She clutches onto her hat as the wind picks up, as she ducks under the overgrown branches to reach a secluded spot near the footbridge spying three small children standing at the water's edge and tossing bread into the pond.

The wastefulness in such difficult times astonishes her, leaves her rooted in her spot until a woman wearing a smartly tailor skirt and jacket comes to join them. The fabric of her outfit, the feather tucked into the brim of her hat proclaims of a different kind of wastefulness – such extravagance leaving Vanessa equal parts jealous and disgusted.

"Only the moldy pieces, Henry," the woman's cool and perfectly clipped voice interjects as she reaches out to adjust the red bow in the youngest child's hair. "The rest Dorota will deliver to those poor souls in the shanty town."

"Yes, Mama," the eldest child replies with a smile as he roots around in the back for another slice. He twists his gaze to look at the bag, pauses his movements when he spies Vanessa watching him and his siblings, and offers her a smirk far too sophisticated for such a young child to have mastered. The smirk catches his mother's eye, but Vanessa turns away before she can catch the eye of the beautifully dressed brunette.

The streets are emptier now – the lines for the soup kitchens gone as the midday meal come to an end – but she stalls as she reaches her destination. And she takes a deep breath as she opens her purse, as she pulls the tattered and stained manuscript from her bag, as she pushes open the door to Mister Perkins' building.

"Girl, girl!"

Indignant voices call after her as she bypasses the typists and the junior editors, the receptionists and aspiring writers and pushes into Maxwell Perkins' office. The surprise on the man's face increases as she stalks towards him.

"You met my friend, Dan Humphrey, earlier," Vanessa reminds him as she ignores Mister Perkins' look of surprise and the hat forgotten on the floor. "And you said you wanted a manuscript by him about wealthy families on the Upper East Side, yes?"

"Yes, but—"

His protestations are silenced as Vanessa reaches across the stack of books gathered on his desk to place another manuscript in front of him; his protestations are forgotten as she says the magic words of every editor and newspaperman in the city longs to hear.

"Paris. Nineteen twenty-four. Serena van der Woodsen. Charles Bass. Blair Waldorf."


	2. Part One

**Author's Note:** I am so pleased that so many of you are intrigued by this story, and I want to thank you all for taking the time to review. This story will be a bit different from anything I have previously written - although, it will be a Chuck and Blair story, of course - so I hope you will continue to trust me and be intrigued by it.

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><p><em>Le Havre, France, April 1924<em>

He grips the railing of the bridge deck tighter as his gaze scans over the unfamiliar landscape in front him. The busy port city is bustling with activity; French phrases shouted as the dockworkers steady the gangplank, as taxi drivers heckle disembarking passengers for patronage, as small boys offer to porter bags and young girls sell tasty treats baked by their mothers.

The less savory characters cling to the shadows of the city waiting for a wealthy passenger to take a wrong turn or a shipman to seek out comforts denied to him during the voyage. And Dan Humphrey turns away when one woman – overly rouged, overly displayed – waves a handkerchief at him concentrating instead on practicing the words he will need to inquire about rail service or advice on where the hire the cheapest hackney into the city.

But the words feel foreign and strange as he whispers them into the salty air; tongue twisting into knots as he adds accents to certain syllables and drops others all together. A sigh of frustration escapes as he tries again, as he lifts his gaze to scan across the horizon once more.

The port city seems deeply unremarkable – no _la liberté éclairant le monde_ holding a golden torch to light a welcoming way into the country, no story pressing upon him in a desire to be told – and he grimaces with a pang of worry that this plan of his may not work. He drums his fingers on the railing of the ship trailing his gaze across the first class passengers disembarking before those in steerage or second class.

The look of boredom falls from his face when the golden hair glints in the sunlight, when she reaches the end of the gangplank and turns to smile back up at the mass of people assembled along the railing of the boat awaiting their turn to follow in her footsteps.

And he remains rooted in place – eyes locked on her – as his compartment mates wave to the overly rouged woman in the shadows, as the small children echo their French-born mother's instructions on how to greet their grandparents for the first time. Words suddenly press down upon him in a desire to be told when the golden girl's lips part into a brilliant smile, and a welcomed feeling floods his heart as she raises one gloved hand to wave at him.

He unfurls his hand from the banister raising it to the wave back at her, but he pauses with fingers half-furled when a sudden jolt of disbelief that she could be possibly be waving farewell to him strikes him. Dan's compartment mates elbow each other watching him curiously because each of them has spied him staring at her on more than one occasion, because none of them has seen him say a single word to her. The three young men – two native New Yorkers and one French immigrant returning to his homeland after a string of bad luck – throw each other surprised looks when they hear her melodic voice rise over the sound of the bustling port city calling out his name.

"Pas au revoir, Mister Humphrey?"

The three men chortle and shove Dan towards the gangplank when they spot his bright red cheeks; the Frenchman calling out a reply in his perfect French for her to wait. The native New Yorkers pat him on the back and pull him towards the front of the line without apology as they muse over what he failed to share with him and wonder how a woman that stunning could be interested in their cabin mate with the passible wardrobe and the unused typewriter. The same typewriter still in its case that they shove into his hands with an audible oomph and jealousy murmurings leaving Dan to walk towards the newly opened second class gangplank clutching his typewriter to his chest with a bewildered look on his face.

The case is heavy, and Dan shifts the weight uncomfortably in his hands as he cranes around the long line of passengers to keep her in sight on the dock. He catches just a glimpse of her waiting between the first class gangplank and the second – numerous bags assembled at her feet – before the impatient crowd behind him pushes him forward.

He strains to see around the steel plates separating the bridge deck from the promenade deck as the exciting murmurs of the crowd grow larger. The noontime sun blinds him for a moment as he steps out onto the gangplank, and he stumbles over the raised wood in the platform – typewriter careening perilously over the ropes – as he tries to find her amidst the crowd.

"He was in second class with us," the woman behind him informs her husband in an asinine voice as she clutches onto the railing while her sea legs shake over the sudden reunion with the hard ground. "She cannot possibly go with him. She would not even know him."

Her husband murmurs in agreement as he tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, and the pessimism is nearly internalized by Dan as he loses sight on her standing on the dock once more. A Sunbeam limousine – similar in style to the one seen driven out of the Clark Mansion on Fifth Avenue in the early morning hours – drives up to block his view of her as he moves down the gangplank, as he takes the final steps back onto to dry land.

His knees buckle slightly at the sudden loss of the ocean's constant motion yet the crowd amassed on the gangplank behind him continues to push him forward. He steps aside of the crowd waiting on the dock to set down the heavy typewriter case. Derisively eyeing the extravagant car, Dan takes a moment to adjust his suit coat and tie as he rehearses what he will say to her.

Their last conversation had been so brief; a breathless thank you when he prevented her draconian chaperone from pressing her to attend yet another small, intimate party in one of the ship's first class state rooms. Their first conversation –

He shakes his head at the recollection because the alcohol on her breath clued him into why she was so very flirty, why she seemed to laugh at every one of his poor attempts at humor. He has barely taken one step towards her when a graceful albeit petite woman steps out of the limousine door being held open for her by the uniformed driver.

The unfamiliar woman's skirt skims the tops of her high buttoned boots; her blouse starts at the neck and covers the parts of her body left exposed by the 'v' in her jacket. Her wide hat shades her porcelain skin from the sun; her brunette hair is swept up in what he can only imagine is a perfectly coiffed style under her hat.

Every aspect of her appearance is poised, perfectly arranged, and reminiscent of the fashions his sister idolized as a little girl in the nineteen tens. The contrast between her and the beautiful Serena van der Woodsen – whose hair falls in golden waves past her shoulders, whose maroon jacket draws the eye to her bare chest instead of hiding it, whose skirt skims the bare skin beneath her knees – is off-putting, and the way the two women draw each other into the tight hug of a warm embrace causes him to pause mid-forward stride.

He sets the heavy typewriter case down at his feet once more while the limousine driver and the maid – a guess he makes based on the pressed black dress and white apron – gather Miss van Woodsen's cases in their hands and carry them to the car. The woman's deeply accented voice barks out orders; the male driver ignores them.

"Oh, B, I've missed you terribly," Serena exclaims holding even tighter onto the petite brunette, and Dan slides his hands into his pockets as he waits from them to notice him standing on the outskirt of their reunion. The other woman responds in French; her excitement falling from her face like a curtain on a show when Serena finally notices him observing them.

"Mister Humphrey," Serena offers with a bright smile untangling herself from the unnamed woman's embrace and stepping towards him. He shifts from side to side anxiously trying to think of something witty to say as an uncomfortable silence falls over them.

Dan opens his mouth to say something just as she does the same, and they both smile awkwardly at the other as they stumble and fumble over who should speak first. The honor is seized by her friend; a woman who looks at him with a fierce amount of determination in her doe eyes as she loops her arm around Serena's and joins their small party.

"And you are?" She prompts without glancing towards Serena to make the introductions.

Dan stumbles through his name surprised to hear her speak English without a trace of a Parisian accent, to see a woman so unbashful about taking command of the conversation. And, rather unnecessarily he realizes only after the words fall from his mouth, he informs her that he is a writer from the greatest city in the world, New York City.

"Da—Mister Humphrey is visiting Paris for the first time," Serena adds when her friend's piercing and unbelieving gaze continues to fill the silence.

"That explains it," her friend replies dismissively before moving to pull on the leather gloves clutched in her hand and switching from English to French. "Irions-nous?"

The prospect of losing his last chance at a chance of inquiring about Serena's Parisian address – or, at the very least, a proper goodbye – causes Dan to stutter out a few syllables of incomprehensible French, and his mind is still racing to find the correct words and pronunciation when Serena excuses them demurely. The blonde whirls the brunette on her heels turning their backs to the American struggling to demonstrate proficiency in a second language, and Dan struggles to follow the inflections of their voices as they converse in French.

His hopes raise when Serena glances over her shoulder back at him with a wide smile on her lips; his hopes dash when her still unintroduced friend looks over her shoulder with a look of blatant disgust. And he has no idea what to think when he hears Serena state "il ne peut pas être pire que les hommes, je sais" – or, at least those are the words he thinks he heard – and watches her friend depart for the waiting limousine with a not so subtle shake of her head.

"Please ignore Blair," Serena instructs him with obvious disgruntlement as she turns back towards him. He tries to offer her a smile in reply but his mind is still fixated on what she said about him – he is worse than the men she knows? – and he barely has time to ask her for a proper translation before she has moved the conversation onto an entirely separate topic. "Would you like to attend?"

"Excuse me," he questions with a shake of his head meant to refocus his attention. She smiles in reply assuming he was distracted by one of the myriad of activities carrying on around them at the busy Le Havre port and repeats her statement that she will be staying in Paris for an extended period of time beginning tonight with a visit to her friend's nightclub.

"Thankfully, no prohibition in Paris," she reminds him, "so you will not need a password. We will be there around nine o'clock or so should you care to join us."

He does not hesitate to agree forgetting both his mother's strong lectures on the righteous morality of prohibition and his plans to take his typewriter with him to have a drink at Dingo Bar on rue Delambre in the hopes of finding the Parisian inspiration he desperately needs to make this trip a success. She smiles at his acceptance informing him that the club, Victrola, is located on Boulevard de Clichy, and he parrots the location back to her, although he sincerely doubts he will forget.

"I will see you tonight then, Mister Humphrey," she states happily before adding he should not allow Blair to scare him away.

And the name – now heard twice – strikes him with its familiarity so much that his head tilts and his features twist with contemplation; that she pauses mid-step towards the car and inquires if something is amiss with her invitation.

"Blair?" He echoes. "As in Princess Blair of Monaco?"

"No," Serena quickly corrects with a nervous twitter. "My Blair is – it is a popular name in France, Mister Humphrey. I'm sure you will meet several Blairs before I see you tonight at Victrola."

And without another word, without hearing his question as to how many female Blairs were raised in America, Serena slides into the waiting limo shutting the door behind her and instructing the chauffeur to drive them to Paris. Left behind on the rapidly emptying dock in Le Havre, Dan Humphrey watches her car disappear with his plans for the evening secure and his plans on how to reach the city center still up in the air.


	3. Part Two

_Paris, France, April 1924_

The late evening rain casts a shadowy cloud over Boulevard de Clichy; the streetlights appearing as hazy glows in the dark night. Yet the luminous, red windmill attached to the top of the building at the center of the boulevard continues to rotate with a creaking groan, with a beckoning call for the men ambling up and down the street – for there are only men about in this area at this time of night – to hand over a couple of francs for a peak.

The sight of the fabled building – an entity Dan had heard of but assumed to be a product of imagination – causes him to pause in the middle of the crowded sidewalk and stare with his mouth slightly agape in surprise. An overly rouged woman saddles up beside him looping her arm through his and taking him by surprise as she leans over to whisper in his ear. The words she seductively whispers in his ear – ones he learned from distinctively French images passed down by alumni and circulated amongst his all-male school, ones he tucked into his school books and studied intently – cause him to stammer and stutter out a refusal.

She tries to entice him with the press of her breasts against his body, with the slide of fingers up and down his arm, but he manages to extract his arm from her grip as he stumbles backwards onto the street. Narrowly missing the pile of horse dung and trash cluttering the gutter of the street, Dan pulls the tattered piece of newspaper he hastily scrawled the address of both his new home in the Latin Quarter and the address given to him by Miss van der Woodsen on the dock at Le Havre on from his coat pocket.

The location of the former – a dank, poorly lit room – slips easily from his mind; the location of the later – the mysterious Victrola – has been his mantra since he learned of its existence earlier in the day.

Glancing at the paper and then at the building numbers, he turns left away from the notorious and nefarious red windmill and continues his trek down Paris' less reputable street. He could have easily missed the nondescript, gray building were it not for the line of people – men and women, alike – standing outside waiting for admittance. The sight causes him to pause and glance at the piece of newsprint once more, to briefly consider whether or not he should join the line before seizing on the relationship Miss van der Woodsen claimed to have the proprietor and pushing his way to the front of the line.

"Dan, uh, Daniel Humphrey," he informs the man blocking the front entrance. The sight of so many people and the unfamiliar sight of men blocking the door rather than standing just on the other side waiting for a password is an entirely new experience for him, and he can feel the flush of fear of being arrested creeping up on him despite the French chatter meeting his ears.

"Je suis un client de Serena, uh, Mademoiselle van der Woodsen."

The burly man – a Kaiser, Dan presumes – eyes him suspiciously as though he does not quite believe the words pouring forth from Dan's mouth. Dan repeats them once again trying to sound a bit more forceful, a bit more confident, but he barely has time to finish his own name once again before the man gruffly permits his entrance into the building.

The heavy door slams shut behind him plunging him into complete darkness; his eyes straining to adjust to the lack of a guiding light as the creeping fear spikes to outright anxiety. His mother had warned him about dens of inequity such as this where men who set aside the morality of prohibition were robbed blind by people claiming to be purveyors of drink, and he nervously turns back towards the door with arms outstretched frantically grasping for the door knob.

His hand curls around the door knob just as the door is flung open once more, and Dan is pushed aside as two women identically dressed in long, burgundy coats and matching, wide brimmed hats enter into the dark entry. Without pausing to check for others lurking about, the women peel off their coats revealing blue dresses that barely skim their knees with straps that nearly leave their shoulders bare to his gaze. He hastily, belatedly averts his eyes from the sight of their pale, bare skin ignoring their movements and only glancing up when a soft croon meets his ears.

The music muffles and then dies as the curtain he failed to notice before falls behind the two women sealing the room off from the enticements just on the other side. He slowly moves towards it – intrigue outweighing fear at his hand brushes against the heavy, velvet – and he sweeps just enough of the curtain aside to allow his eyes to follow the identically dressed women before they are swallowed up by the crowd. The jazzy, brass band plays somewhere out of sight; its music punctuated by the clinking of glasses in cheers and the murmur of merry voices from those assembled near the bar.

The sound of the door opening once again forces Dan to push the heavy curtain further aside, to take a tenuous step towards the crowd gathered around the bar unabashedly ordering one drink after another. Words he had heard spoken in hushed whispers back in New York – scotch, champagne, bourbon – seem rather blasé when spoken in perfunctory French, and his gaze skates down the gleaming, wooden bar to eagerly eye both the drinkers and the drinks in their hands.

"Mister Humphrey!"

The American accent catches him by surprise nearly as much as hearing the sound of his own name does, and his eyes dart around the room trying to find the speaker amongst the crowd. A crowd of men roughly his own age eye him hostility, suspiciously when his gaze lands on them, and he begins to turn away from them when he spots a flash of golden, blonde hair amongst the monotonous grouping of black suits. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other with evident intrigue on his face, he twists his body to contort into just the right angle in order to spy Miss – Mademoiselle, he corrects himself – van der Woodsen seated amongst the cluster of men on one of the bar stools.

His gaze darts from floor to ceiling; his gaze darts from the large slit in her shimmering dress exposing the creamy skin of her upper leg to the pack of men hovering far too close and, finally, to the bright smile on her face. He cannot help the way his lips twitch upward into a smile; he cannot help the way his lips twitch downward as one of the men moves to place his hand on the small of Serena's back while another brushes his hand against her bare arm.

Yet Serena seems not to notice their attention as the statuesque blonde rises from her chair, as she abandons the drinks undoubtedly paid for by the men vying for her attention, as she ambles towards him with a welcoming smile. And the frown slides from his face as she exclaims about how pleased she is that he made it and informs him that she has a table reserved for them nearer to the stage.

The abandoned men cast him hostile, derisive looks when he begins to follow her through the crowd, but his smug satisfaction falters as the stage where scantily clad women in red brassieres and long, pleated skirts hiked to their waists parade and dance across the stage – their movements becoming slow and exaggerated as the music changes tempo – comes into view. The sight catches him off-guard, and both the reputation of the club and his perception of the woman who invited him diminish as he pauses in his eager strides forward.

The smile on Serena's face falters briefly as she glances from Dan to the women on stage, yet the loss of such a sight – and, moreover, the words churning in his head in the formulation of a story – causes Dan to push aside his hesitation and nod for her to continue to lead the way. The patrons of Victrola seem to know her intimately calling out greetings in French, English, and unintelligible words in between as she passes by and then eyeing him with evident intrigue and hostility as his form blocks their view of the sway of the shimmery fringe ringing the bottom of her skirt.

Serena leads him towards the high-backed couch located at the center of the room directly in front of the stage. The ends of the couch curl in a circular fashion providing those seated upon it with a modicum of privacy not afforded to the other patrons seated amongst the club sipping on their drinks and enjoying the show. And he is surprised to find two brunettes already sitting in close proximity to one another on the couch – her hand resting lightly against his upper thigh, his hand curled tightly around a glass filled to the brim with an amber brown liquid.

"Mister Humphrey, you remember my friend, Blair?" Serena asks gesturing towards the woman whose face is revealed with the twist of her head in his direction and the subsequent sweep of her wavy, brown hair off her face. The transformation from the Blair he was introduced to at Le Havre astonishes him; his mouth dropping open slightly and his eyes widening in surprise as he takes in the sight.

Gone are the long skirt and the high-buttoned neckline; gone are the sturdy boots and the wide brim hat. The woman seated in front of him wears a creamy, off-white dress that falls just below the knees with a neckline that dips dangerously close to where her corset should begin. Her shoulders are bare save for the rather thin straps holding up her dress, and he imagines the whole of Victrola would be privy to an indecent amount of skin where it not for several strands of her black necklace covering the upper part of her chest.

"Uh, bonjour, Mademoiselle—" Dan trails off uncomfortably as her acidic gaze meets his, as he chastises himself for greeting her with a good morning rather than a good night, as he realizes that he does not know her last name. And, thankfully, Miss van der Woodsen saves him with a reminder that Miss Waldorf speaks English as well as French.

"Besides," Serena informs him with a teasing smile directed at the man seated beside Blair, "we have to refrain from speaking in French with Chuck if we want to avoid hearing about only the debaser parts of the language of love."

"I believe you are confusing me with your best friend, sis," the man replies in a deep, American voice as his grip tightens on his drink. "Blair loves to talk dirty."

He raises the glass to his lips without introducing himself to Dan, without turning an acknowledging the other man's presence so all Dan can see is the way his lips pull into a smirk against the rim of the glass as Serena offers an audible gasp of disgust and Blair colors slightly. The fall of the self-congratulatory smirk into a grimace catches Dan's attention, however, and his eyes moves from the profile view of the man afforded to him to the red chrysanthemum tucked in the lapel of the man's black suit coat and, finally, to the small, pale fingers tracing the inner seam of the man's black pants.

Dan barely has a chance to observe Blair's movements before the man introduced only as Chuck slams down his empty glass and murmurs words about getting another scotch as he rather forcefully pushes Blair's hand away from his body. And it is only when the man attempts to seize on the appearance of control as he stands and buttons his suit coat, as he strides towards the bar at the front of the building that Dan is finally afford a view of his face – the very same face that was plastered across the _New York Times_ for multiple times over the past year.

"Was that Chuck—?"

His question is cut off by Serena's nervous shifting of her weight as she stands beside him, by Blair's icy gaze as she sinks back against the couch and petulantly crosses her arms. And yet he does not need to finish the question because every single New Yorker could recognize the heir apparent of Bartholomew Bass' vast enterprise – a crime ring accused by the Internal Revenue Service of being the most ruthless and pervasive bootlegging outfit outside of Atlantic City and Chicago.

And he can practically feel his mother's anguish over news of his visit here as the realization dawns that Serena's friend who owns this nightclub must be the infamous Chuck Bass. But he is denied the opportunity to ask Serena to abate his fears as Serena gently pushes him to take a seat with the bump of her shoulder against his. He is denied the opportunity to ask Miss Waldorf to correct his conjecture as she proceeds to drown all but the last bit of liquid from the fluke of champagne held in her hand and focus her intense stare on the women dancing across the stage.

"Maybe I should join them on stage," the brunette murmurs in consternation as Serena takes a seat beside her friend. Dan shifts wearily in his seat – partially uncomfortable by the suggestion, partially unsettled by the brush of Serena's sheer stockings against his kneecaps – and shifts his gaze from the stage to the women seated beside him and, finally, to the floor as he debates the merits of forsaking his one opportunity to converse with Miss van der Woodsen in order to save his soul and his mother from heartbreak.

Yet it is unlikely that he will be able to locate her in Paris outside of Victrola; it is unlikely he would be afforded another opportunity if he was to leave here in a huff of disgust. And, with increasing anxiety, he watches the possibility of conversing with her at all tonight diminish further as she and Blair lapse into rapid French he cannot follow.

"Mister Humphrey, please wait here. I will return shortly," Serena promises abruptly breaking his concentration on the pattern of the wooden floor as she allows another woman dressed in mirror image of Blair right down to the headband drag her away. She offers him a smile; she offers Blair a sharp look and an edict to stay put.

With one last sip of her champagne, the brunette ignores the decree and makes her way towards the bar. He tries to call after her biting his tongue when he realizes the haughty woman would never listen to his attempts to corral her behavior, and then he tries to twist his head angling it in an attempt to see over the back and spot the blonde who invited him here amongst the crowd.

Unable to see, he stands up ignoring the jibs of the people behind and around him trying to see the show. His final strand of patience is shredded when he spies Miss van der Woodsen seated on yet another bar stool lapping up the attention of the men gathered around her, and his resolve to stay is broken when he sees her lean into the touch of an obviously wealthy man laughing and smiling at his joke.

With an audible, disappointed sigh, Dan abandons the place where he was asked to wait and pushes his way through the crowd towards the entrance of the building. Several burgundy curtains are strung from the ceiling blocking off corridors and passageways, and he hesitates beside the one closest to the stage as he tries to figure out exactly which one will offer him a way out. He skips the first curtain and then the second one before settling on the curtain towards the middle of the back wall, on the curtain located at the far end of the bar.

His hesitation ebbs when he pulls back the curtain and enters a dark room on the other side; his hesitation peaks when his eyes adjust to the darkness and he spies a petite woman pressing a man up against the wall. His eyes widen in shock as he watches the woman – her back to Dan – place the man's hand against the curve of derriere; his eyes widen further when he hears the distinct American accent of the woman trying to entice the man to take her now.

"No," the deep, gravelly voice replies in strained, clipped syllables. The woman releases an audible growl of frustration pushing her hips against the man's in reply. "Not like this."

"Would you prefer a burlesque show beforehand? I know how much you love it," the woman counters as enough light fills the room for Dan to watch her run her fingers against the man's cheek, to watch her twist her neck affording the man a view of the nape of her neck. The man leans forward slightly at the sight – chin dipping down so his lips can almost graze against her bare skin – before his whole body seizes and he moves to stand erectly, distantly once more.

"Not while you're married," the man coolly, dismissively replies. "Not while another man would raise my child, Blair."

And the whole room is robbed of air at the mention of her name – or, maybe, the mention of a child – with the three people assembled in the room freezing mid-movement. The spell, however, is broken for the couple with Blair's frantic shove of his hands from her body and broken for Dan when the realization that he risks the possibility of being caught as the woman begins to turn towards him, towards the exit of the closed off room. And Dan barely manages to blend into the crowd before Blair Waldorf stalks off with obvious anger towards her best friend seated on the other side of the room and Chuck Bass slips out from behind the curtain trying to mask his evident discomfort as he heads towards the bar.


End file.
